


a wank down memory lane

by solrosan



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Artist Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Kink Meme, M/M, Masturbating to art, Masturbation, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27390028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solrosan/pseuds/solrosan
Summary: Written for the Hard Mode of this prompt at The Old Guard Kink Meme on DW:Easy mode: Joe masturbating to his own sketches of Nicky. None of them are particularly dirty but Joe is overcome with lust anywayHard mode: NICKY masturbating to these sketches but not to the images of himself but the memories of when these were made, the care Joe put into them, how good his husband’s art is etcA small huff leaves him and a smile spreads over his face when he finds a drawing of himself, lying on a sofa, his jacket gone and a certain look in his eyes. It’s not the drawing as much as the memory that it awakes which makes him smile.They had gone to the opera, for some reason he can’t recall, but he’d become too annoyed with the Italian so he had left to drink overpriced wine instead. Joe, not overly impressed by his petulant behaviour, had joined him in the intermission. When the second act started, and they’d been left more or less alone, Joe had taken out his sketchbook. And then, because he had been a bit tipsy and a lot childish that evening, Nicky had started stroking himself through his trousers.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 18
Kudos: 101





	a wank down memory lane

**Author's Note:**

> [Here is a link to the original prompt on DW.](https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/5880.html?thread=2124024#cmt2124024)
> 
> A lot of this fill is based on [this scene from A Dangerous Fortune](https://hawkaye.tumblr.com/post/626490234864025600).
> 
> I wrote this at work today (I know, I know) and I post it before I chicken out...

Joe is out.

Well, Joe and Andy are out to meet Booker. But Joe’s out and it makes Nicky antsy when he doesn’t have anything to do but wait. 

They will all be back before nightfall, but for now he’s left alone in the small studio flat they have in London. Or it’s studio _now_. 120 years ago or so -- just when they had picked up Booker -- it had been generous to classify it as an attic even. It’s still generous, let’s be honest, but it doesn’t rain in anymore and there is indoor plumbing. 

It’s only their second night in the city and hopefully they’ll be gone in a week. None of them like this island; the weather, the language, the politics, the… people. Needs must and so on. They haven’t been here in ages and it's actually a surprise that the place hasn’t been retaken by the landlord and rented out to someone else. Perhaps the rumours Booker tried to start around the turn of the century, about this place being haunted, had worked? If that’s the case, Nicky finds it hilarious because with them there, it sort of is.

He walks around the small space, removing the sheets they’ve used to cover the scarce furniture they have collected and running a wet cloth over some of the flat surfaces. His heart is not in it, but he knows it will feel better to come back to something that looks habitable rather than the backdrop of one of the horror movies Andy for some reason loves. 

When he’s done -- or “done” -- Nicky decides to explore what they left here last time in terms of food and what state it’s in. They always try to leave some things that may last until their next visit; grains, dried meat, tin cans, honey… they always leave honey on Andy's insistence. The only edible things he finds in the cabinet are some sorry looking teabags he won’t try even if they paid him and a jar of honey. He gets a spoon, runs it under the tap to get the dust off, and then takes a spoonful before putting the jar back. 

Licking at the honey, he pokes at the other things in the cabinet. There are enough plates, cups and glasses (most of them mismatched, but still), some outdated maps over the city, three books (one of them probably worth a fortune by now), Booker’s lost rosary, one of Joe’s old sketchbooks… 

He picks up the sketchbook and walks over to the sofa -- he hates that sofa, his entire body remembering how difficult it had been for him and Booker to get it up here. He props the book up against his knee, but puts the spoon of honey into his mouth to be able to flip through it with both hands. To no surprise whatsoever most of the drawings are of him and of random architectural details Joe must have come across in the city, but it’s clearly not from the last time they were here. Nicky smiles at his curls and his cape. And his gloves! He misses gloves, especially in the colder areas of the world. When had it changed? When did it become acceptable for a well-dressed gentleman to not wear gloves? 

Not that they are -- or have ever been -- gentlemen, but it’s fun to pretend sometimes. And gloves are nice.

A small huff leaves him and a smile spreads over his face when he finds a drawing of himself, half-lying on a sofa, his jacket gone and a certain look in his eyes. It’s not the drawing as much as the memory that it awakes which makes him smile. 

They had gone to the opera that night, the four of them, for some reason he can’t recall, but he’d become too annoyed with the Italian so he had left to drink overpriced wine instead. Joe, not overly impressed by his petulant behaviour, had joined him in the intermission. When the second act started, and they’d been left more or less alone, Joe had taken out his sketchbook. And then, because he had been a bit tipsy and a lot childish that evening, Nicky had started stroking himself through his trousers. 

Nicky takes the spoon out of his mouth and shifts a little on the sofa. Jeans aren’t always on his list of practical novelties. He glances at the window, it’s still bright outside. The others won’t be home for hours. 

He unbuttons the jeans and unzips his fly. The fabric of his pants are not the same as the fabric of the trousers he’d worn that evening, but the friction is similar and the warmth of his hand the same. It feels good. He hasn’t done this in ages. 

Joe had tried to be cross with him, sighing and rolling his eyes. It had been some time between this country’s anti-buggery laws and the Wilde Debacle so Joe had had a point that it was a stupid way to draw attention to them, but if Nicky remembers correctly, he’d had a hard time not look at what Nicky’s hand was doing.

To be honest, Nicky is impressed that Joe actually finished this one. And that he had left out the state he put himself in.

And speaking of…there’s a wet spot on his pants already and all he can do is thank Jesus his body is at least thirty and not twenty. Or worse, fifteen.

He shouldn’t have removed the sheet from the sofa. 

Well, he’s not getting it now. Instead he pulls the jeans down to his knees and his pants just enough to get his cock out. He props up the sketchbook against the armrest. 

Joe had finally abandoned his attempt of pretended decency, showing off quite a bulge in his own trousers when he got up. He had muttered annoyed curses at him, but not really been that annoyed, while pulling him into a dark nook.

Nicky doesn’t remember many details after that. He imagines they’d kissed, Joe commenting on how he tasted of wine while they helped each other into their trousers. They can’t possibly have done more than handjobs in a public place like that. 

But what if they had? What if Joe had gone down on his knees, right there in the opera house and taken him in his mouth, his beard brushing against his thigh. Had Joe had a beard at that time? What if it had been one of the few decades when he’d been clean shaven? 

Nicky bites his lips trying to remember not only what Joe looks like without a beard, but how it feels when he sucks him off without one. It’s difficult, too difficult, and he lets the idea go. 

What if Joe had pulled down his trousers and his pants, leaning against the wall to let Nicky grind between his butt cheeks? Or between his thighs? Fuck. Nicky would have reached around and taken hold of his cock, stroking it like he now strokes himself. 

That probably hadn’t happened. They had probably jerked each other off, kissing and silencing each other’s moans with their mouths. Joe might have come first, his warmth spilling over Nicky’s hand as his grip tightened around his cock. Or maybe he’d come first, his hips thrusting into Joe’s hand? Maybe Joe bit his lower lip, maybe he whispered filth in his ear...

Nicky gasps, he can’t focus his thoughts anymore. It’s all a jumble of memories -- pictures, fantasies -- of Joe, his hands, his voice, his breath… Nicky looks over at the drawing beside him and cups his free hand over the tip of his cock to catch some of the load. Joe isn’t there to muffle his moans, he does nothing to stop it himself, and he comes a few strokes later.

He leans forward when it’s over, cursing as he tries to save the sofa (and his dignity) after the fact from any too incriminating spots. Still with the jeans around his ankles and his cock out he shuffles to the sink to the bathroom for a quick wash up. That had been… something. He grins when he meets his own eyes in the mirror. He has to remind Joe of that night. Perhaps there are gaps he can fill in. Or gaps they can explore…

After pulling up and inspecting his jeans, he concludes that he probably got away with it. There are a few spots that he gets with water and soap, they will dry before the others get home. When he gets back to the main room, the drawing of him seems to lock eyes with him. His grin widens and he shakes his head. He picks it up, closes the sketchbook and puts it back where he’s found it. 

If Andy insists they keep honey in all their safe houses, Nicky decides that he’s going to start keeping mementos like this there as well.


End file.
